


Quicken

by orphan_account



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-10 00:18:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>2006</p>
    </blockquote>





	Quicken

**Author's Note:**

> 2006

A little place just outside where they said they’d be with some of that cake from the café they drove past and sent someone back for, drinking beer that says it’s Bud, but it ain’t but that’s ok, cause it’s not that piss they serve on tap in England.

Walking along through streets where no one gives a shit about two guys that touch each other a little more than maybe two guys should, or that Chris’ hand lingers on the back pocket of Steve’s jeans a little longer than he needs to grab the cigarettes Steve’d carefully rolled in the car on the way here.

No one knows who they are, no one gives a shit and they can spend the whole day, fuck the whole rest of the week with an anonymity neither has had for a fucking long time. Chris catches himself thinking that maybe it’d be good to have that again but then lets his head fall forward in a shake and laughs, fingers tugging at his lips, cause there’s no fucking way he’d want that again.

Looking over as Steve does the same, enough said without words and he wonders again if they could spend an entire fucking day just looking at each other and still get shit done.

Steve raises his eyebrow and smiles and yeah he figures they probably would.

Walking, cause they can and it’s warm and they don’t have to be anyplace for another four days. They’re tight and loose and every other fucking thing they can be, it’s working and if only he could remember the fucking words after too much Jack. Figuring that sending Steve off stage helps some, well, maybe a little, he can close his eyes and think about what he’s singing and not who’s standing next to him.

Yeah, cause that works when Steve sings that song and he wants nothing more than to drag them both into that dingy room out back, with the paper taped over the window and drop to his knees and suck Steve til he can’t breathe and Steve’s fingers are so tight in his hair he might as well have been scalped.

But he doesn’t. Instead he sits or stands and watches fingers he knows every callus on, move over strings that eyes don’t need to see, play chords he tells people he doesn’t know, or can’t play. His tongue playing out over his lips and he steps back a little, fiddles with his shirt, reaches down for that shot of Jack that appears on the stage in front of him and he tries real hard not to think about those fingers, and just how they’ll feel pushing not so carefully inside him.

Promising himself that when they get to Germany the day after tomorrow that he’ll be cool and not think about it and knowing even as he says that silent vow, he’ll fail, just like he always does and do they do an intervention for this? 

Finding themselves back at the hotel, no conscious plan to head back there, but then that always happens. A look, the odd word and here they are, asking for the key card, pushing at each other to get through doors and into elevators that play the worse kind of tinny musak. The kind you know and would find yourself tapping your foot to and humming, were your mouth not trying to get to that skin that’s drawn tight over Steve’s collar bones right this second.

Pushed away by fingers that never mean it, not really, not when they’re digging hard onto his hips, tugging at the belt loops on his jeans, getting them faster to their room. Stopping to find his back against some door, his head held tight in Steve’s palms, _fucking want you now_ bitten into lips already open, licking at his mouth, sucking on his tongue. Impatient fingers moving to dig into the soft skin at his belly, tug at the buttons on his fly and he really needs to hit the gym hard before they leave for South America next month. 

“Walk…” Curling his fingers in Steve’s shoulders, tearing his lips away, vision blurred as he turns, sure the room is around here someplace and the fist curled around his dick ain’t helping any, not one little bit. The half-assed batting at Steve’s arm to get him to let go, getting him no more than a ‘nu uh’ in reply. Resting his head on the door, letting out a huge puff of air when finally they get to their room.

The usual fight over the key card and truly, these fucking things hate him cause they only work for Steve who smirks a ‘pfft’ when he says ‘fuck you’ and they fall, jeans practically at their knees already into a too bright room, the smoke and Jack and sex from the night before a distant undertow to something that’s too sweet to be lemon and a cool breeze from the open window.

No care given to fresh sheets and the uncrumpled comforter as they fall, toeing off boots that have seen a million better days, tearing at jeans with button holes so worn and soft they rip and he curses cause he loved those jeans and he’s fucking not explaining that to his mama again. 

Fingers catching in the knots the wind blew into Steve’s hair, raising a curse and an answering tug and they roll and fight and bite and kiss it better, until he falls back breathless, his wrists pinned at his sides and Steve’s tongue doing that thing just behind his balls that makes his hips tip up and his thighs fall wide. Heels scrabbling for grip he never gets and still he tries as fingers let go his wrists and hands lift and a soft point of pure heat presses into his body and if his own fist wasn’t clamped so fucking tight around his dick, he’d fucking come that second.

Growling out “Sonofabitch,” between clenched teeth and he can feel Steve laughing against his skin. Fingers skating over wetness to push inside. Thumb drawing circles behind his balls and he swears he will pull every hair from Steve’s head if he don’t quit teasing, but doing fuck all about it anyway. Warm breath drying skin he knows is too fucking tight, too hot only to have the flat of Steve’s tongue lay a path from his balls to his earlobe and back, fingers never once stopping even as the grip he has on his dick fails.

Frozen for that second, heat spilling over his hand to pool on his belly, every nerve ending in every part of his body fighting to be the one that feels the most, be the one that shears and is raw and alive and on fucking fire. Falling back and still Steve’s hand does not let up, just slows as his mouth sucks at the pulse in his neck.

“So not done with you yet…”


End file.
